


Broken Cups

by jesuisherve



Category: Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: F/M, Family Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 11:05:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuisherve/pseuds/jesuisherve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based after the book, influenced some by the movies. Hannibal breaks cups, Clarice has no idea why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Cups

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Разбитые чашки](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2500604) by [Teado](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teado/pseuds/Teado)



Hannibal Lecter was not a man who lost control. Even in situations where things seemed completely out of his hands, he managed to have influence somewhere. Clarice had seen this quality in him time and time again during their relationship. Ever since the first day they met in the basement of the psychiatric hospital where Hannibal was kept, Clarice had the distinct feeling that he was in control. He was fettered by the inconvenience of his imprisonment but was still present outside of his cell, whether it was through words echoing in someone else’s head or his carefully laid plans unfolding.

The extent of his control was impressive. Clarice experienced it first hand during her time at the FBI, especially while searching for the serial killer Jame Gumb. Hannibal knew from the beginning the identity of the elusive Buffalo Bill and guided Clarice to find him. During their late night talks in bed Hannibal also recounted to her the events that came before her with Special Agent Will Graham and how he facilitated catching the killer, unceremoniously nicknamed ‘The Tooth Fairy’ and later ‘The Red Dragon’, as well as playfully endangering Graham’s family.

While Hannibal was not the type to lose control, sometimes he felt it slipping from him. The courts had ruled that he was insane after he had been caught for the Chesapeake Ripper murders. Hannibal never felt he was so. What he did was terrifying to the public; they did not know his motives or reasoning. They feared what they did not understand. It could not be helped and Hannibal cared little if he was thought of as a monster or misunderstood. Public opinion meant nothing. It was the opinions of those who mattered to you which were really important. It amused Hannibal how many failed to grasp this concept. It was one of the reasons that he rarely tarnished his opinions of others. If he was untruthful, what was he worth? Not much.

If Hannibal ever felt he was losing control, or needed to be assured of something, he broke a tea cup. This exasperated Clarice. She tried to understand why Hannibal felt compelled to do this. He had showed her his tapes of Stephen Hawking with emphasis on the segment where a cup gets broken. The cup would always exist in your memory as whole, but once it is broken it will never reassemble itself. Hannibal had a strong correlation between the memory of his sister Mischa and the metaphorical broken cup. Clarice could see where the thinking was going but Hannibal’s need to actually break cups escaped her. 

He did not break cups all the time. It was seldom that Hannibal felt out of control with his emotions. Sometimes if he was growing increasingly frustrated or annoyed, he would sweep his hand across the table in a delicate motion and knock a single cup off the edge. It would shatter and he would watch it intently, waiting for it to reassemble. Every time, the cup stayed broken. Every time, Hannibal would clean up the broken glass with a satisfied smile on his lips.

Clarice couldn’t talk him out of breaking the cups. If she tried to address it, he would tactfully avoid the conversation. It wasn’t like he broke a cup every day, so Clarice didn’t often have to bring it up. But when it did happen, it irritated her beyond belief. It was annoying because it was unnecessary. As fastidious as Hannibal was, Clarice was equally practical. Breaking a perfectly good cup to relieve whatever he was feeling was inconceivable to her. If she needed to blow off steam, she would go work out. It was a great stress reliever.

Mischa’s birthday came up. It was marked forever in Hannibal’s mind. He didn’t do much to commemorate the day, what could a big brother do for a dead little girl? Still, for whatever reason, on this birthday he felt more melancholy than usual about it. One couldn’t say that Hannibal Lecter moped around the house, but he was considerably close to that. 

Hannibal broke three cups that day. The first was at breakfast. Clarice was eating scrambled eggs with sausage. She was wrapped in an exquisite housecoat that she had received as a gift. Her fine hands guided the food to her coral mouth. She was beautiful. She had done nothing with her appearance, her hair was a mess and her eyes sleepy but she was beautiful.

Hannibal knocked his cup off the table. 

It shattered loudly, making Clarice jump. “Hannibal!” she said sharply, “you scared me. Jesus.”

He ignored her, leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the cup. The shards didn’t move. They stayed put, gleaming in the morning light. Clarice might have said more but he didn’t hear her. He got up silently and fetched a dustpan to clean up.

The second cup was smashed half an hour later. Hannibal volunteered to wash the breakfast dishes. While drying the clean cutlery and putting them away, he dropped another cup. Clarice heard the noise from another room and pretended it didn’t happen. There was no way it was accidental. Hannibal did not drop things accidentally.

The third cup did not get broken until later that evening. It was well after supper. Clarice was sitting comfortably, reading a book in Italian. She had picked up the language from Hannibal and studiously stayed in practise by reading in it as much as she could. Hannibal broke the third cup in the dining room. Upon hearing it, Clarice jumped up and ran to him. She was angry now. She could look past him breaking things once in awhile, but three in one day was ridiculous.

“What is wrong with you today?” she snapped, coming to stand in the doorway. Her arms were crossed and in one hand she held her book, place marked by a slim finger.

Hannibal didn’t look up. His eyes were glued to the obliterated cup on the floor. Clarice marched to the dining room table and put her book down. She then went and grabbed Hannibal’s shoulder. He barely glanced at her.

“Hey,” she said, trying to keep her anger down. Getting emotional would do no good. “Talk to me.”

“It is Mischa’s birthday today,” Hannibal said with a sigh. He knelt and began gathering the large broken pieces.

Clarice’s anger washed away from her. It was replaced by sadness. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I,” Hannibal murmured. He swept up the rest of the cup and dumped it all in the garbage.

Clarice took the broom from him and put it aside. His maroon eyes, normally so bright with little pinpricks of light in them, looked dull. Clarice brought her hands to his face and cupped his cheeks. “It’s okay to be sad,” she told him, tilting his head forward and kissing him gently. Hannibal closed his eyes and held her to him.

What was Clarice to him? Girlfriend, wife, partner? It was hard to define. No legal documents bound them to each other. It was too risky, practically, for them to have any ceremony. Besides that they felt no need for it. There was no reason to define their relationship. Other people could assume all they wanted. In public, especially at the opera, Clarice looked like Hannibal’s young girlfriend. It was whispered by passing strangers that she stayed for his money. On a walk together to a coffee shop, it was thought they were a newlywed couple. Again, Hannibal cared naught for the opinions of others. Clarice stayed with him because she wanted to; he stayed with her for the same reason. 

Hannibal used to be afraid there was no room for Clarice in his life. So much of him was consumed by the memory of Mischa. He dedicated incredibly amounts of energy to her, mentally, emotionally and otherwise. When Clarice first came to his cell, with her cheap shoes and young face, she had been a momentary distraction. Before he made his escape she visited him again, bringing his drawings and more questions. She told him deep secrets about herself and when he returned the case file to her, he touched her once. That was it. She owned a place in his mind ever since then.

Hannibal tightened his hug on Clarice. He buried his face against the crook of her neck and shoulder. She let him hold her. He inhaled her scent, felt her warmth. She was so alive, so alive, and poor little Mischa who loved the colour purple, wasn’t. Sometimes Hannibal felt anger. Why couldn’t it be Mischa who was walking around, living and breathing and laughing, while he was the one who was dead? But moments like this, when Clarice knew what he needed and gave it to him, the anger dissipated.

Did he love her? Yes. He loved her with every fiber of his being. Clarice was the center of his world. It was clichéd and he usually abhorred clichés but this one was so simply true that it he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, rid himself of it.

Clarice made Hannibal feel alive.

A few days passed and Hannibal broke no more cups. Clarice had a realization of sorts the night of Mischa’s birthday. What Hannibal had taken from the tapes of Stephen Hawking was a theory that eventually things would reassemble. While the theory had been debunked, Hannibal still desperately wanted Mischa to reassemble. It was impossible, but seeing a shattered cup on the ground reminded him of the reality he was living in.

If the cup ever levitated and put itself back together, Clarice could be sure she would feel a crossbow bolt in her head. If reality warped and the laws of physics no longer applied, her place would be given up for Mischa. The thought chilled her, but she also took comfort in the fact that every time Hannibal broke a cup, he was happy afterwards. Because every time the cup stayed broken, it meant that his memory of Mischa and his current life with Clarice could coexist peacefully.

Clarice bought a set of cheap tea cups specifically for Hannibal to break. She put the box of them in the kitchen and labelled them “In case of Existential Crisis: break cup.” The label made Hannibal laugh heartily. Clarice’s pointed sense of humour delighted him.

He broke even less cups than before. Something about what Clarice had said to him, “it’s okay to be sad,” resonated. The phrase stuck in his head and occurred to him in his quiet moments.

Clarice was right. It was okay to mourn Mischa. Even if she never came back, feeling loss was okay.


End file.
